


Times Present and Past

by Small_Hobbit



Series: Sussex Retirement [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Retirement Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Holmes' birthday, although he does not wish to celebrate and family news from Stanley Hopkins recalls further memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrival of the Post (Present)

The days in early January always seem grey. It is as if the seasons are telling us we may have celebrated the shortest day and be heading towards the summer, but that is a long way off and it will be some time before we throw off the darkness. Holmes did not wish to make a fuss about his birthday, and preferred it when no-one was aware of the date. However, I had had to enlist some help with the present I had chosen for him. I had tried to give the impression this was to be merely a belated Christmas gift, but I do not think I had been entirely believed.

Holmes, of course, knew I had something planned, but for once was at a loss to know what it was. I assured him there would be no repeat of my own birthday surprise, for whereas an unexpected special tea had meant a lot to me, it did not go with his character. I had arranged for some roast beef for our dinner, telling Mrs Maiden it was our tradition for Twelfth Night. She had given me a strange look and commented about the odd behaviour of folks from the city, but had said no more.

There were, therefore, no cards on the mantelpiece that morning, but nevertheless Holmes had been prompt to go to the door when we heard the post arrive. He returned, reading through one of the letters as he did so.

“It would appear Mycroft is seeking to emulate you in the production of florid works,” he said, as he resumed his seat. “He has written a veritable Twelve Days of Christmas. I believe I shall keep this until the evening, when I shall read it to you. From the front page it would seem he is suffering from the gout once more and has been passing the time by writing an extremely full account of his days for our entertainment.”

“Poor Mycroft,” I said. “We shall have to arrange to visit him again once the weather has improved a little. I assume he would not deign to visit us here instead?”

Holmes gave a short bark of laughter. “What? My brother leave his small triangle? Crowns would fall.” He paused, and then added, “The second letter is from Hopkins.”

“How is he?” I asked. “I have to admit to a sense of unease, since we did not hear from him before Christmas.”

“All is well,” Holmes replied. “It would appear the baby arrived sooner than expected, but mother and child are doing well.”

“That is good news,” I said. “Does Hopkins have his second son, or is it a third daughter who will wind him round her little finger as the older two do?”

“It is a boy, who Hopkins relates has an excellent pair of lungs. Hopkins also comments he would wish for a little more sleep.” Holmes peered at the letter. “As is quite evident from both the handwriting, which is scarcely better than yours, and the problems he had with the date. He has had to amend the year to the current one.”

“That is surely excusable in the circumstances, and an easy mistake to make,” I interrupted.

“Indeed. But he appears to be under the impression it is already April.”

“In which case we shall blame the lack of sleep,” I said. I paused, happy for Hopkins and his family, and thinking I should send something for the baby. Then I looked down at my arm, and without realising it I pushed up my shirt cuff and ran my thumb over my left wrist.

Holmes saw me do it and said, “It is strange to think mention of both Hopkins and the wrong date on a letter can bring back so many memories.”

“At least this time we can be sure this is not by any deliberate ploy, but only a combination of tiredness and the distractions provided by a busy family home,” I replied.

 


	2. The Letter Writer (Past)

“Who would send a letter, in which he writes the matter is most urgent, and yet not be concerned when it takes two days for the letter to reach me?” Holmes asked one morning at breakfast.

Since, as usual, he had made no pre-amble before firing out the question, and I was engrossed in the morning paper, it took me some seconds to consider what he had said.

“I believe the weather has caused difficulties with railway network, it may have been delayed,” I reasoned.

“A plausible solution, had the writer not lived in Kent. And in any case, since he had received no response from me when he requested a reply upon receipt of his letter, would he not have sent a telegram as a follow up?”

I agreed. “Unless, of course something has happened to the writer in the interim.”

“There is nothing in the papers to support this theory.” Holmes peered at the envelope. “The weather seems to be responsible for more than delays in the railway network. The rain has almost obliterated the postmark.” He placed the envelope on the table and took out his magnifying glass. “It looks, however, as if the letter was only posted yesterday.”

“That does seem surprising, considering the matter was urgent. I suppose the writer may have made a mistake with the date, if he was agitated.”

“That theory is not borne out by the handwriting of the letter. It is quite precise and clear. A man sufficiently agitated to confuse the date would not write so clearly, but would run his letters together. No, I must conclude the dating of the letter was deliberate and done with the intention to deceive. I believe the writer of this letter merits a call.”

I did not have time to respond, for at that moment there was a knock on the door and Inspector Hopkins entered. He had come to see if Holmes could assist with a case he was working on. There were a number of anomalies, which his colleagues believed were of no significance, but Hopkins was not convinced. Holmes agreed with Hopkins and suggested we go with him to make some further enquiries.

“I was planning on calling on a new client who lives not far from the area you are looking at. I can therefore take the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone,” Holmes said.

In the cab Hopkins provided further details of the case. There seemed to be an argument between two gangs regarding the areas used by several of the local prostitutes, in the process a number of the woman had been injured, some quite seriously. Hopkins, showing evidence of his strict chapel upbringing, had little sympathy for the women, who he deemed had chosen their occupation. However, unlike many of his colleagues, he did not believe violence against them should be condoned and was determined to bring the attacks to an end.

I felt it would be unprofitable to share my own views and explain for many of the women there was very little choice, or indeed knowledge, of an alternate way of life. Better to have someone who disapproves of you trying to keep you safe, rather than no-one at all.

According to Hopkins someone had stirred up trouble between the two gangs and whenever it seemed to be dying down, the fans were flamed again. He believed whoever was doing this was benefitting in some way, but without proof he could do nothing, which was why he had asked Holmes to assist.

We arranged we would meet with Hopkins after we had called on Holmes’ client. When we arrived at the house we were admitted by a servant. He explained his master had been so distressed at not receiving a reply from Holmes the day before, he had taken to his bed. Holmes replied he had only just received the letter.

“Oh dear,” the servant said, “how unfortunate. I wonder, would Dr Watson, you are Dr Watson aren’t you, sir? Would the doctor be able to attend my master to see if he were well enough to speak with Mr Holmes? We have been very concerned about my master’s health?”

“Of course I would,” I replied. “Could you show me the way?”

The man pointed up the stairs. “It’s the first room on the left. I shall stay down here. The poor man grows distressed when more than one person is present at a time.”

I made my way up the stairs and knocked at the door. I heard a weak “Come in!” so I entered the room. There was a step behind me and I spun round, but not quick enough to avoid what I presume was a blow to the back of the head.


	3. Annie (Past)

When I recovered consciousness I found I was in the enclosed outside area behind a basement. I was bound and gagged and alone. I wondered what had happened to Holmes, for whoever brought me down the stairs must have passed the room I had left Holmes standing in. I hoped he had not been attacked as well.

There was a door which led back into the basement, which I assumed would be locked. Apart from that there was a metal ladder on the side of one of the brick walls which formed my prison. I struggled to release myself of my bonds and in the process realised my left wrist was bleeding.

I heard a soft voice calling down asking if I was okay. I could do no more than grunt and in a few seconds a young woman climbed nimbly down the ladder. Her dress gave the impression she was one of the woman who worked the area.

Quickly she loosened the ropes tying my hands and feet and undid the cloth which had been my gag. She took the cloth and bound up my wrist as best she could. I tried to stand, but still felt dizzy from the blow I had received. I realised even if the woman was to help me across to the ladder the first rung was about three feet off the ground and I would need more assistance to climb onto it than she could give me.

She must have realised the same thing, for she said, “Lie down again and pretend you’re out for the count. I’m going for help.”

She climbed up the ladder and ran off. I lay down and waited, listening to hear if my attackers had returned, but all remained quiet.

After about five minutes I heard footsteps and then my rescuer arrived with Inspector Hopkins. Hopkins tried to insist she remained on the pavement, but she ignored him and climbed back down, and he followed. With Hopkins’ help I got to my feet and onto the ladder. It was not easy, but I managed to slowly climb up and the two of them helped me over the small wall at the top.

We were on our way back towards the main road when we heard someone shouting, “Annie, you come ‘ere.”

Annie stopped and turned as if she was about to obey the command. However, Hopkins took her arm and said, “No, Annie, you’re coming with me.”

She tried to resist and said, “I haven’t done nothing wrong.”

The man caught up with us and said, “Give her back, or else pay me for her. If you both want her, it’ll cost you double.”

Hopkins looked down at Annie and I felt my heart sink; the young woman didn’t deserve to get into trouble as a result of helping me.

Hopkins turned to the man. “I’m Inspector Stanley Hopkins from Scotland Yard. If you do not wish to be arrested I suggest you depart at once.” Then he took Annie’s hand, squeezed it and said, “Don’t worry Annie, I won’t let any harm come to you.”

I did not have much time to feel surprised at Hopkins’ unexpected behaviour for at that moment we saw Holmes, who limped across to join us.

Holmes explained after I had left to visit, as I thought, my patient, the servant had offered to show Holmes what had given rise to his master’s concern. He had taken Holmes across the road and into an apparently abandoned warehouse, and from there up to the first floor. Holmes had been expecting trouble and so when the man attacked him he was able to knock him to the ground. Unfortunately, at the same time a second man, quite possibly my assailant, had entered the warehouse, bringing with him a group of labourers who he had instructed to stack a pile of boxes near to the door. Holmes had been forced to wait for them to leave before he had been able to make his escape.

“I believe it would be worth you checking the contents of the boxes, Hopkins,” Holmes said. “I think this is part of a smuggling ring and the organiser is causing your feuding gangs to act as a distraction whilst he uses the area as a staging post.”

Hopkins thanked Holmes for his assistance and called us a cab.

While we waited I asked Holmes, “What was the point of the letter you were sent?”

“I believe it was to provide an alibi. How could the poor man have been present at some other location, the whereabouts of which I expect Hopkins will soon find, when he is ill in bed?”

“But surely,” I replied, “he took a risk in writing to you?”

“No doubt there was an element of bravado there, too. He would not be the first to make that mistake.”

I agreed and we got into the cab. Looking down I noticed Hopkins and Annie were still holding hands. It reminded me quite poignantly of the way my dear Mary and I had held hands when we had first met.


	4. Holmes' Birthday (Present)

My reverie about both my own wife, and the way Hopkins had found his, was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Maiden. I made a mental note to send Hopkins’ my congratulations plus a gift for his new son, before turning my attention to the important matters at hand.

Mrs Maiden had indeed provided us with an excellent roast dinner, which included some of her delicious horse radish sauce, a particular favourite of Holmes’. As we were eating, Holmes gave me an enquiring glance, but I was able to honestly shake my head, for I had made no mention of the particular significance of the date.  However, as previous occasions had proved, she was not above making deductions of her own.

Around two o’clock Seth and Austen the carter arrived. They had brought with them my present for Holmes. Austen and his boy unloaded it and carried it round to what was now referred to as Holmes’ Bee-Keeping Shed. Inside the shed was a jumble of the paraphernalia Holmes used for his bee-keeping, together with many of his records. I had spoken to a local carpenter who had built a suitable rack for Holmes to hang his equipment on.

We manoeuvred the rack into the shed and then Seth and I returned to the kitchen for a cup of tea, once I had paid Austen for the delivery. I was confident we should not see Holmes until the light started to fade, for, as we left the shed, he was already humming to himself as he considered the arrangement of his new rack.

Seth had also brought with him an Epiphany Tart. I had been going to order one at the baker’s, but on hearing this, Ellen had said she would make one herself. I had offered to pay her, but she declined the offer, saying she was only too happy to do so, in return for the companionship we provided to her father.

Arthur had sent a note with the tart, which challenged Holmes to not only identify the jams, but also the jam makers. A separate note, addressed to me, provided the solution. I knew, whether the lad was aware of this or not, this would be a present Holmes would greatly enjoy.

Holmes finally came back inside when it was dark. He was cold, but clearly delighted with his present. I showed him the tart, and presented him with Arthur’s challenge. The grin on his face widened as he said, “Raspberry, probably the curate’s wife; oh, but then again there’s gooseberry jam as well.”

He turned to me and said, “I had been planning on an early night, with you, and finishing off my birthday in style. But now I have this delightful puzzle ...”

“The tart will keep at least until tomorrow,” I replied. “I would certainly not recommend you eat it all today.”

 


End file.
